Where Have All the Flowers Gone
by Starsong
Summary: Back on Puckworld, there's been no word from the Strike Team. The planet gathers to celebrate its heros--but there are those who see no cause for celebration.


Just a note about the title--it's the title of a sixties song I heard on a Charlie Brown special about World War II. oP My dad said it's supposed to mean that the flowers are all gone from the fields because they're on the soldiers graves, or something like that. 

Anyway. oP 

* * *

  
**Where Have All the Flowers Gone**

It smelled like a funeral home--the cacophony of a hundred different flowery scents, coliding with each other and assaulting visitors as if they were intruders on a private arguement. 

That was Deke LaGlace's first thought as he approached the great stone memorial to his beloved only daughter and the children of his companions--five other sets of parents who were faced with this great stone monstrosity that was meant to honor the memories of the ones they'd loved so dearly. 

The memory. 

As far as Deke was concerned, he would have the exact same feelings if he were standing in a graveyard looking at his baby's tombstone. He stared dully at the dead flowers heaped around the base of the monument and piled up against its sides. Proof that the entire world believed that his sweet, beautiful, vibrant daughter was dead. 

And that she was so unknown to them that they actually believed she would have liked this...thing. Lila, who took so much joy in the life around her, would have seen the heap of cut blossoms as a terrible waste, and the cold, unyielding marble was so unlike her that it nearly made him ill to have her name associated with it. 

But he remained the calm ambassador, properly composed and solemn and grateful. His sweet wife did the same, though her eyes brimmed with tears that would be excused as appropriate and thankful. He crushed her tiny hand in his, the only sign of his frustrated anger and deep heartache. She returned the pressure, equaling him in ferver and feeling if not in strength. 

He was no longer sure whether his countless mental reviews of the facts were intended to bring him hope, or convince him of the futility of that hope. 

The Strike Force had left and never returned. 

The Master Tower had been destroyed. 

There was no trace of Dragaunus in the tower. 

There was no trace of the Strike Force, either. 

Conclusions: 1) Dragaunus and the Strike Force had both been destroyed in a battle so furious that it had left no evidence at all of either. No evidence, even, of the Strike Force's Aerowing. 2) Dragaunus had escaped, and the Strike Force had pursued--without calling for backup, and without either ship being seen in the neighboring sectors. 

Neither conclusion made any sense at all. There were so many problems that he could have argued for hours against either case. 

But what other options were there? 

Perhaps he was just an old man in denial. 

Perhaps he didn't mind that so much. Denial kept him sane, kept him living. Kept him fighting to make a better world. For her. 

*** 

Admiral McMallard's strong jaw was tight as he held himself at rigid military attention, delivering a perfect salute that his daughter had most assuredly earned. He should have been proud, but all he felt was a deep and profound despair. So his daughter had saved the planet. 

She hadn't saved herself. The war was over, but he'd lost so much that had made fighting worthwhile. First his beloved Mara, and now his dear daughter. 

His sons flanked him, both fine, strong young men. The eldest,uniformed, mimicked his father's stance. The younger merely stood in solemn silence, hands folded quietly in front of him. He'd always been the peacemaker, the gentleman. He'd spent a great deal of time with Ambassador LaGlace. The Admiral wondered if his youngest child intended to make a career in diplomacy. 

Once he might have been disdainful, even disappointed, but now, he was proud. 

He'd seen enough war, enough loss, enough violence. More than enough. His eyes misted slightly as he lifted his proud chin a little higher. 'May your sacrifice not be in vain, my wild spirit, my Mallory.' 

'May it never be forgotten.' 

*** 

Mave Flashblade couldn't help it. She broke down at the sight of her boys' pictures on that awful thing. She buried her head in Stormwing's chest and cried for all she was worth. Cried her kind, tender heart out. 

Being her rock was the only thing that kept Stormwing from doing the same. He took a shuddering breath and held her. Irene LaGlace came up to them and rested a hand on Mave's back, giving what comfort she could with her silent presence. The Admiral, the Ambassador--they had always known that the ones they loved were in perpetual danger, as a result of their positions. Mave and Stormwing were civilians. The greatest threats against their families had come from the city streets, and they had armed Wildwing and Nosedive well against them. 

The fate of the world was cold comfort to them. Confirmation, yes, that they had indeed raised their sons with character and integerity, but cold, cold comfort none the less. Looking at the great monument made them want to scream and tear the thing down. Their boys were not martyrs, they were good-hearted, loving sons who'd justified every hope, every faith their parents had had in them. Even now neither of the two completely understood why their sons had been sent, why their sons had been chosen when so many others with more training and experience were available. Had their children been the only ones with the courage to stand up and make the sacrifice? 

No, not the only ones, Stormwing knew. He was surrounded by the loved ones of five others that had made the choice, that had taken the stand. If his boys were dead--Stormwing still clung desperately to the if--they had not died in vain, and they had not died alone. 

*** 

"Ye think 'e's dead, Mac?" The young duck stopped to stare wide eyed at the monument as they shifted through the crowd. 

"Who cares?" the older boy said gruffly. "Ya din' e'en know 'em, whadda ya care?" 

"'e's th' Leader!" 

"'e wuz th' Leader, ya mean. 'e left us, and tha's tha'. Now quit gawkin' an' do yer job." 

The young one obediantly slipped his hand into the nearest pocket and liberated the wallet imprisoned within. "I still think 'e was a hero," he muttered to himself as he slipped away. "I don' care if 'e did leave. 'e's still a hero." 

*** 

Champ Vanderflock stood by his brother-in-law, his face locked in a grim impatience that revealed exactly what he thought about this whole situation. 

His reaction was hardly unexpected by the crowd. He and his wife both insisted their daugther still lived--insisted loudly, repeatedly, and publically. He wouldn't have shown up at all, but Deke had talked him into it, the stubborn old bird. Champ had to admit, though, dead or not, Tanya deserved the recognition. She'd deserved it years before the invasion. Deserved it, in her father's eyes, since the day she was born. The world was simply acknowledging what he'd known all along. 

Champ had never been one to miss a chance to say 'I told you so.' 

*** 

For all her stoic patience, Mila was very, very tired of the event. Grin had faced the greatest challenge of his life long before this--faced an inner demon that could have ripped his gentle soul away from him. He'd been a bully, denying everything that had been done to him, using his size and strength to reassure himself that nothing could ever touch him that way again. 

He'd found his soul again, and the giant was gentled. Mila Hardwing hadn't feared for him, not during the whole of the war, and not now. Nothing could touch her son--not the part that went beyond the physical and soared through the universe. She'd always known that was where his greatest strength lay. His great muscles might someday fail him, his size might someday not be enough. Perhaps even now there was nothing physical left of the boy she had cared for. But she didn't grieve--or if she did, it was for her own loss, and not for his. Yes, he'd had a great deal to live for, and a great deal of life left to him, but in truth it was no great loss. His freedom could not be taken, not by any force in this universe or any other. Not by any force but the force of his own will. 

She would watch, and wait for him to come home. And if he did not, then it was no great matter. He was with her anyway. She would someday know the truth. If not in this life, then in what followed. 

That was enough for Mila. 

*** 

She watched the ceremony listlessly, to apathetic to even pretend interest. No honors, no glories, no prizes, no monuments would bring her son back to her. Her only child. She remembered holding him when she was a baby, she remembered the stubborn, proud light in his eyes even as a fledgeling as he firmly refused to yield to anyone, over any issue. She remembered, with a faint glow of pride that had once burned brightly, his drive, his determination. His passion. Canard never did anything halfway. He was the best, or nearly so, at everything he attempted, merely because he did not rest until he reached whatever pinnical he had marked out. 

Such a waste. All gone, all for the dreams of a madman who wanted vengence and glory and power. For that creature's petty grudges, her wonderous son had been taken from her. She would gladly have payed any price to be rid of the evil Saurian, down to and including her own life. She would have denied him nothing. Nothing, except this. Except her child. 

The price of freedom was too high for Clara Thunderbeak. 

She felt herself being led away, and didn't resist. 

*** 

Pretend all the usual disclaimers are here. Everybody here belongs to me except the seven original Mighty Ducks, who didn't even show up. ;oP [starsonglw@hotmail.com][1]

   [1]: mailto:starsonglw@hotmail.com



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